Good Shot
by stina88
Summary: In a bid to save Sherlock's life, John shoots at the cab driver. The shot is direct and straight, but then Sherlock moves and suddenly John hits the wrong target. Oneshot set during "A Study in Pink" on what would happen if John had shot the wrong person.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own nor ever will own any of the brilliance that is the Sherlock TV show, I simply create something from the brilliant characters I've already been supplied with.

_In basic this oneshot is one that I came up with as I was re-watching "A Study in Pink". I had the sudden thought as John took aim at the taxi driver of what would have happened if instead he ended up shooting Sherlock and this is where this idea sprung from. I have never written a oneshot before but over the time it has taken me to write this I have come to think of it as my kind of "oneshot baby". I hope that any who choose to read it enjoy it, or at least as much as you can do with such serious subject matter. It is rather negative in tone, especially as Sherlock has been shot. Please read and review, any comments will be much appreciated. Thanks!  
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**Good Shot**

As soon as the bullet left his gun, John knew that something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

The shot split silence as it crashed through one window and smashed through another. John could only watch in terror as the shot hit. It was on target. But his target had changed. It was another man entirely who was recoiling in shock as a bullet buried itself in his chest.

The gap between the two college buildings had seemed like nothing only moments before but now there was the whole of time and space separating him from Sherlock. John had aimed. He had fired. And he had shot straight. It had broken out of one building and smashed into the next, straight into the chest of a very surprised sociopath.

Then John ran.

His feet couldn't move fast enough. They burned as he ran. How could this be happening? How could this ever happen? Why to him? One second John had been saving a man's life, a man who he had hoped would become a friend of his in future… and the next he had taken this life. John's breath hissed out as he threw open another door. Doors and stairs and corridors were in his way. But he couldn't see anything, he had just one focus: Sherlock.

John had jumped into a taxi without knowing where it would take him only that Sherlock would be at the end of that journey. And so he had gone. He barely knew the man but already he was willing to follow him anywhere – even to risk his life for him. Sherlock was the man who'd let John feel again. No longer was he the John who lurked in the shadows wounded from the war, lacking in purpose and strength… he had a purpose now. Sherlock had made him feel danger again. His palms were completely steady as he powered his way through the college.

His new life had ended before it had chance to begin. John had shot clean and clear… He blinked. His eyes were glazing over. He couldn't have killed an innocent man. He couldn't have killed someone so brave, so intelligent, so brilliant… He couldn't have killed Sherlock.

John burst outside and careered past the taxi. He had to get into the other building. He had to get to Sherlock. And so, he gritted his teeth and ran. Usually by now his limbs would be shrieking in pain, calling for him to stop but they said nothing – he had far too much adrenaline. His feet were claps of thunder against the polished floor of the empty college, yet he couldn't let this stop him. John didn't care who heard him. His breath was coming out in harsh gasps as he scrambled up the stairs to the second floor, and suddenly he was there.

Dialling 999, he hurried down this final corridor towards the room where he knew Sherlock would be. The two college buildings were identical in every way, right down to the floorboards, the doorways, the windows… John was running out of time. He flung open the door. Then he stumbled and almost fell. Lying on the opposite side of the room was the body of Sherlock. A Sherlock who was clutching at his chest with his eyes closed… he was so pale. But he was still breathing.

There was blood everywhere. Sherlock had clearly panicked. All that intellect clearly hadn't known what to do with all that blood pouring out of him. He must have struggled. John ran to his side and ripped his jumper off, pressing it to the gaping hole in Sherlock's front. "Come on… Come on you bloody idiot."

The wound in Sherlock's chest was just slightly left of centre showing how the bullet had scraped through skin and bone. The blood on Sherlock's shirt was in an uneven circle around the chamber in his body and John now found his eyes being drawn to the gap in his flatmate even as he tried to apply pressure. How had he managed to shoot so accurately when the bullet was meant for another person?

John's eyes shot up. Where was the cabbie? Left. Right. His eyes searched the room. He was desperately trying to focus. There was a real danger in this room somewhere but all he could think about was the life pouring out of his broken flatmate. Then it dawned on him. He hadn't looked behind.

The stab of the knife in John's shoulder didn't hurt too much to begin with but it was the hand sneaking round to force-feed him tablets that worried him. "Get off!" he grunted, biting down hard on the cabbie's fingers and whipping his head back.

The cabbie swore loudly and pulled the knife from John's back.

John's scream of pain shocked even himself as the knife withdrew from the clutching sinews of his shoulder. He hadn't expected the cabbie to be so fast. But then when he next looked up the cabbie was walking away. "Stop!" John yelled.

The cabbie obeyed but didn't turn. "You lured him out here for what? So you could watch him die at another's hands?"

John was angry and reckless. He wanted the cabbie gone but he also wanted a reason for this madness. A reason for why Sherlock was lying on the floor in a pool of blood in his place. John got no answer. The cabbie simply placed two bottles on the bench and left.

John returned to a corpse-like Sherlock. His pulse was faint and he was so cold. John tried his name again, his voice like a bomb in the stillness of the college… and suddenly Sherlock's eyes were opening.

"John?"

Never had the cool and superior Sherlock Holmes sounded so drained. Never had he searched so keenly to find another human being. "John… You missed."

John could have laughed. It was just such a ridiculous thing to say but his voice was gone. Not even a bullet wound could stop a sociopath from being so wonderfully blunt. "I fired a perfect shot. Someone just stepped in the way."

John tried to put a smile in his voice but it simply sounded all the more fake.

There was a pause. "Did I get it right?"

"Did you get what right?"

"The tablets… did I get it right?"

The strength seemed to return to Sherlock's voice for a second in his frustration but it was soon gone when all John could reply with was: "I don't know."

John had to somehow switch himself off and become simply Dr Watson. He had to. Otherwise he would just sit gazing at this man forever wondering if he could have saved him… Sherlock was taking over his mind – he was his last chance at a real life and he was fading.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" John was abrupt.

"Two. That's a thumb, John."

"Vision remains certain, no effect to the visual cortex as of yet. How are you feeling, Sherlock? Is there any pain other than in your chest?" Sherlock paused and then came the answer that John had never expected.

"John… I can't feel anything."

He blinked. Then blinked again. "What?"

It was John's turn to completely lose his voice as he stared at Sherlock. He was so pale, his skin almost chalk against his dark hair slicked to his forehead with sweat. Yet even if Sherlock looked like a ghost, he was still Sherlock. This was the man who had made him forget a limp and run across London with him… "What?"

John was aware of his mouth hanging open gormlessly but at this moment in time he couldn't care less. His eyes were focused completely on Sherlock's face. The sociopath stared back at him. It was like some sick kind of staring match: who would be the first to blink? Who would be the first to cave to his injuries? Who would be the first to fade?

Then Sherlock's mouth was opening again and out popped those words once more. He couldn't feel anything. The shot had caused much more damage than it appeared… and it had already looked fatal. John couldn't wait any longer for those ambulances. Sherlock was dying, and they hadn't even got a chance to get to know each other properly. John's hands fumbled as he struggled with the jumper to press down further on the wound. "This should stop the bleeding…"

There was a pause. He really couldn't think of what to say. How could you comfort a genius who could no longer feel? "I thought sociopaths weren't meant to feel-" John began in a feeble attempt at humour, but it felt wrong.

He couldn't say anything. You couldn't just tell Sherlock that everything was going to be all right, you couldn't joke with him – he knew better. He always knew better.

Sherlock's voice overcame the silence. "It's nice, John."

John narrowed his eyes. "It's nice not having to deal with stupid bodily functions – everything is so much more practical. I finally have more space to think-"

"Shut up."

John's finger was now covering the consulting detective's lips. It was a very sensitive gesture but John didn't care what it looked like. He couldn't just sit here and listen to a madman talking about the positives of paralysis. Who could concentrate on how much they would be able to think when there was a great chance they'd never be able to think again?

Slowly the numbness from John's own wound began to fade as his adrenaline left him. His hand started to spasm around the jumper he still pressed to Sherlock's front in vain. He knew now that with the jolts of pain going through himself he wouldn't be able to keep this up much longer, and Sherlock was fading. John's own wound was not fatal, he could tell that but it could knock him out – and if he were knocked out then there would be no-one there for Sherlock in his last moments.

For now John knew that the ambulances would not arrive in time. The sirens were barely whistling in the distance. They clearly didn't care enough. Not like John. He knew now what had happened. His bullet had hit Sherlock slightly on the left of his chest, barely missing his heart but cutting through muscle and straight into the edge of Sherlock's spine. Sherlock was lucky to be alive. If that bullet had hit any more to the right then the entire spinal cord would have snapped and Sherlock's heart would have shut down. It was a good shot.

Sherlock and John sat for what seemed like hours as the sirens gradually came closer. John couldn't say anything. He simply watched as one by one the brain cells of a genius went out. It was all his fault and he couldn't help Sherlock anymore. No-one could help Sherlock now.

"John?"

The sociopath was focused entirely on him and it was almost unnerving that someone of such fading strength could look so intense. Then slowly Sherlock turned his eyes to the two bottles standing on the table, the two bottles of death.

John didn't know how the cabbie had used these tablets but he knew they meant death. Serial suicides. Maybe one was poison? Maybe they both were? "John."

Sherlock was insistent and John couldn't deny him this… he couldn't deny a dying man. John's hands didn't shake as he left his flatmate on the floor and retrieved the bottles. "What are they, Sherlock?"

The sociopath smiled. "Painkillers."

John felt his brow furrowing but didn't ask any more questions as Sherlock flicked his gaze between the two bottles. "The one on the right."

John stared. "John. Please. The one on the right."

Still John stared. What was Sherlock saying? "I need to know if I'm right, John. It's a 50:50 chance. I'll be fine. The one on the right."

So this was it. Sherlock wanted his last move to be proving himself, proving that he had deduced correctly as usual. John dropped his eyes. He couldn't deny the man that. Slowly he removed the cap from the bottle in his right hand and tapped out the pill. It looked harmless, but could so easily be deadly. John just hoped that Sherlock would be right.

He slipped the tablet between Sherlock's lips. Sherlock swallowed.

"You really are an excellent marksman."

Sherlock paused to breathe. "That was one hell of a good shot."

John smiled. That was when Sherlock started choking.

It was like someone had shut off Sherlock's airway entirely, forced it shut. John didn't know what to do. He panicked. He was a doctor… this was his profession, but even war hadn't prepared him for this. Sherlock's face was slowly turning from pale to grey, and John decided he had to move. Pushing with one hand still on Sherlock's chest he began to roll his flatmate over. Then his eyes caught Sherlock's. They said one thing: No. John let go.

It was a 50:50 chance… and Sherlock had picked his option. John closed his eyes and dropped both hands to the floor as he leant closer to Sherlock. Why did he have to choose this? Why would anyone choose this?

"I was right."

Sherlock's voice was like mist and John bent closer, pushing his ear to Sherlock's mouth. The sociopath's last breath tickled him as he said finally, "John, I was right."

Then there was no more. John kept his eyes on him until the very last moment, until there was nothing else. No more deductions.

That was when the door sprang open. The paramedics rushed in, but they were too late. John couldn't control his tear ducts as they ran to check the sociopath's pulse and then returned to him. "What happened?" a girl with kindly looking brown eyes asked him as she struggled with her first aid kit, looking at his wound.

John simply stared at Sherlock. He could only tell the truth. "I killed him. He was brilliant… and I killed him."


End file.
